


Something Sour to Balance the Sweet - Day 4 - Cranberry

by ravendiana



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Little Shit, Gen, Lots of spiders - Freeform, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21689479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravendiana/pseuds/ravendiana
Summary: This assignment has to be one of the worst he’s ever had, the angel thinks, wading through the flooded bog.  “Bless this righteous man’s berry harvest,” they said.  "Right up your alley,“ they said. He groused as he sloshed along, feet squelching in his completely inappropriate shoes.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Something Sour to Balance the Sweet - Day 4 - Cranberry

**Author's Note:**

> I mean it about the spiders warning. This takes place in a cranberry bog and there is a truly excessive number of spiders.

Somewhere in Massachusetts sometime in the mid 1700′s 

This assignment has to be one of the worst he’s ever had, the angel thinks, wading through the flooded bog. “Bless this righteous man’s berry harvest,” they said. "Right up your alley,“ they said. He groused as he sloshed along, feet squelching in his completely inappropriate shoes. He very much doubted that there was any blighting in store for this harvest at all. It was almost done, only a few bogs left. Either that or he had already succeeded in his task and could leave knowing the goodman would bring in enough from this to sell for the money to make a comfortable winter. He brightened at that, but no, he was told to be here for the duration, so for the duration it would be.

It wasn’t even the spiders that bothered him. True if any human had been told to be on the lookout for a demonic influence they might think they had found one in what looked more like an ambulatory mountain of spiders than a celestial being. Then again those people probably also farmed this area, so they would just see some poor sod in a bog, covered in spiders, because that was just what life was like here. It wasn’t that he minded the spiders in particular, they were Her creatures as well, and these meant him no harm. They didn’t want to be in this wet bog any more than he did, and were just looking for a ride out, though they did feel decidedly odd in one’s ears. No, what hem minded was that he was wet, and cold, and PURPLE. 

Every stitch of clothing he’d come in was now vibrantly dyed by the bright berries. The farmer thought him quite clever to get his clothing dyed for free by his work. Well if people thought it was such a lovely color, he’d give it to them. He belonged in white and cream, with hints of blue or some natty tartan, not this garish color. For that matter he belonged in his bookshop, with a good book, a warm fire, and a nice cup of tea, not in this cold, wet bog surrounded by berries to tart to possibly be good eating. 

He was working himself into a fine sulk when he felt something brush his leg. It was cold and slippery and large enough to ripple the water around him. Any human who was out here would probably have been frightened to death. Aziraphale, however, knew three things that they did not; that it was already far too cold for the deadly southern water snakes to be found this far north, that there were no snakes in this area remotely as large as what was under the water and floating fruit, and that if there was any serpent trying to give him a fright in a damp and inconvenient assignment it would undoubtedly be one particular serpent. With a speed his form and countenance gave little hint to, he turned and bent into the water arms wide and closing around a body nearly the size of his own torso and hauling as much as he could out of the water. 

Great black scales gleamed in the moonlight, the red belly blending with the red berries. The strong body writhed in his arms, before the great head came out of the water and turned a baleful yellow glare on him.

"You’re no fun tonight, Angel,” the serpent said, in a manner only they could hear. “You didn’t even jump or squeak or anything.” It is difficult to say how a face with very few moving parts can pout, yet somehow the great snake was doing just that.

“I am no fun because I am having no fun, Crowley. I am wet, and cold, and very very far from the nearest decent pastry shop." Aziraphale’s pout was a good deal easier to understand, and even more emphatic. "Are you the reason I’ve been traipsing through these bogs for over a week?”

The head wove back and forth, in what could pass for a shrug when you have no shoulders. “I’ve been about, mostly stirring political pots though, only came out here cause I noticed you.”

“Well if you aren’t up to anything, what have I been guarding these dreadful sour bog berries from?”

“Beats me, maybe it was your lot’s idea of a joke? I’ve never understood what passes for humor up there.”

The angel glared at the demon, mostly because he was probably right. “Oh do try talking with a human face,” he snapped, just so he could complain about something. 

“Sure thing, Angel,” Crowley agreed amiably. Suddenly instead of having his arms wrapped around some innocuous length of snake, Aziraphale found his arms full of a man shaped demon. Man shaped, very close, and very very naked. "Hello, Aziraphale,“ Crowley purred down at him. This time he did squeak, and jump backwards, landing on his rump in the bog, his arachnid contingent swarming his head as the only spot above water. Crowley was cackling madly. "Oh, Angel, I love what you’ve done with your hair!" 

Aziraphale couldn’t even glare properly through the spiders, much less speak, and with a snap he set them all safely on dry land. His glare now free from constraints he leveled it at the demon. "You did that on purpose,” he accused.

Crowley tried to stop laughing, with negligible success. “Well, yes, obviously. I did get you to jump and squeak though,” he said through his laughter. “Oh come on, it’s just a bit of fun.” He waded over and offered his hand to help the angel up.

“Put some clothes on first,” Aziraphale objected.

“You know anything I put on right now won’t really be real, right? What’s the use of soggy fabric?” Crowley countered. "Besides, even if there were anything to see at the moment, which there isn’t by the way, it would all be sub-cranberry.“

"It’s the principle of the thing,” Aziraphale insisted. Crowley knew that once the principle of things got involved he was unlikely to make any headway. He waved a hand vaguely upwards, and was dressed in the simple homespun clothing most men wore in the region, dyed a dark, berry red. Once he was dressed Aziraphale took the offered hand and was pulled to his feet. By the time Crowley had stopped pulling they were out of the bog and in a neat one room cabin with a fire blazing in the hearth and Aziraphale’s clothes were clean and dry.

“Better, Angel?” Crowley asked, casually swinging the kettle around on it’s pole till it was over the fire. 

“Immensely, tha- at was well done." He avoided the thanks that were so likely to put the demon’s back up. Dry and warming up, his manners and good mood were already returning.

"Only fair since I got you all wet,” Crowley answered. Aziraphale chose to ignore the double entendre. "They really had you guarding and blessing a berry bog? Whatever for?“

"I’m sure I don’t know. The farmer is a good man, and he’s had a bad few years. He deserves some help, but I think sending me for the entire harvest was rather too much. They said I’d enjoy it because it was berries.” He made a face. Crowley tried again not to laugh, with more success this time.

“You tried eating one, didn’t you?”

“They were berries! How was I to know how sour they were. How does anyone make their living growing such things! Who is eating them?”

“Just about everyone around here,” Crowley answers. “No, honestly, they mix them with everything. Mix the juice with apple juice, dry them and put them in cake, boil them down in sugar and spices. They really are quite good.” Aziraphale was giving him a dubious look. 

“See the problem is, you just went and ate one all on its own. They don’t work like that. They work best when they are paired with an opposite. They need something sweet to bring out their full flavor, and the sourness balances the sweet, keeps it from being cloying.”

“That, does sound reasonable,” he allowed. Crowley smiled. 

“Look how bout you spend the rest of this harvest keeping me pinned down in this nice warm cabin and I’ll make you some of the local favorites. Keep both of us out of the bog, and you can say you did your job.”

“That sounds lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled and meant it for the first time all week. “I do believe the kettle is ready!”


End file.
